Liam O'Flaherty - The Black Soul

‘Curse the woman,’ he said, ‘she’s making a fool of me. All right. That finishes it. Good God, I was mad to think of a peasant woman. I’m becoming utterly degraded. I’m finished with women! They are the curse of life. There, she’s been trying to tempt me. I’m glad I resisted her advances.’ And he ate his dinner hungrily, quite satisfied with himself. Then he endeavoured to fall back into his slothful habits of winter. He sat by the fire smoking. But he couldn’t rest. His hands and feet were fidgeting. He suggested all sorts of activities, a walk by the Hill of Fate, a visit to the old fort, a turn around the fields where the peasants were working, but none of these things satisfied him. All these places were connected with Little Mary, and he must avoid her. Finally, towards evening, he set out towards Coillnamhan. He told himself that his walk there was completely without purpose, but he sat on a fence above the beach, waiting. That was the road from the school to O’Daly’s house. He kept watching the hill between him and the school. Kathleen O’Daly would come along that way.

Then he saw her coming over the hill talking to another man, a priest. He made a movement to jump from the fence, but he held back. ‘Why should I run away from a woman?’ he asked himself. He tried to calm himself and be indifferent as he waited until she came up. He could hear her laughing as she approached, but he wouldn’t look in her direction. He was watching two seagulls on the beach quarrelling raucously over the carcass of a dogfish. Then he turned towards her suddenly and raised his hat as she was passing.

‘Good evening, Miss O’Daly,’ he said.

Kathleen stopped dead and made a startled gesture.

‘Good gracious! Mr. O’Connor,’ she said, ‘you gave me a fright. I never saw you.’ She had in fact seen him a long way off. ‘Let me introduce you to our curate, Father Ronan – Mr. O’Connor, Father Ronan.’

The Stranger shook hands with the curate with an effort at cheerfulness, although he hated priests. He associated them in some peculiar way with all the things that had caused his ruin. The curate, a squat, heavily built, shabbily dressed man with a dark face and beautiful grey eyes, stammered something inaudibly and then smiled. He began to smile towards the Stranger, and finished smiling towards Kathleen. He was always shy of men, though quite at home with women. A most peculiar man, though a fine character, and absolutely sincere in his belief in his religion and mission. His body was that of a prize-fighter, but his eyes were those of a nun, and his manner corresponded with his eyes. He could look no man in the eyes, and he always blushed and fidgeted when talking. His face would darken suddenly, and he would grip his side as if he had a stitch in it. The Stranger misunderstood his embarrassment. ‘He’s in love with her,’ he said to himself. ‘The hypocrite!’ Then he himself fell in beside Kathleen and began to talk cheerfully and nonchalantly. He would show the yokel of a priest that he was a man of the world. But his affected cynical bantering had no effect either on Kathleen or the priest. They both pitied him. They did not get irritated as he hoped they would. They merely raised their eyebrows and said a word now and again in agreement with the most bitterly cynical things he could say about the country and its religion. They parted almost in silence at the western end of the beach. As he shook hands with Kathleen she pressed his hand slightly and looked pityingly into his eyes.

‘You must come to see us often,’ she said; ‘my father is always talking about you. Do please come.’

The curate tried to say something and then blushed and looked at Kathleen. The Stranger could catch the words ‘interesting books.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Kathleen, ‘if you should like something to read, Father Ronan would be pleased –’

The Stranger interrupted her with a wave of his hand, and began to walk away.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I prefer to be a primitive man. I have no wish to be converted.’ And he walked on.

The roads parted at right angles. He walked hurriedly for a short distance, and then paused to tie his shoe-lace, which did not want to be tied. He undid it and then tied it again as he looked after the other couple. They were on the brow of the hill, going towards the village. Kathleen kept twitching her shoulders slightly as she walked, and held herself very straight, staring in front of her. A curl of hair waved from beneath her black round cap.

‘You should try and save him,’ the curate was saying. ‘There is something on his soul.’ And Kathleen smiled, glad to give that construction to her desires.

But the Stranger, watching them, thought they had forgotten all about him.

‘They think I’m not fit to associate with them,’ he thought. ‘Wouldn’t even argue with me. Very well. To hell with them. It’s just the price of you, Fergus O’Connor.’ And suddenly he laughed aloud, and drew his lower lip over his mouth. ‘There’s Little Mary, anyway,’ he said. Going westwards the sharp wind cut into his marrows, and he felt the urge of spring fiercely. ‘Hurrah!’ he shouted, and threw his hat in the air. ‘I wish I could commit some heinous crime to satisfy myself.’

He passed Red John riding on his pony near the cottage. Red John did not speak, but lashed his pony and passed at a flying gallop, his short legs swinging in opposite directions along the horse’s flanks. The Stranger could hear him swear at his horse long after he passed out of sight.

‘All right, you lout,’ he muttered viciously; ‘I’ll make you a cuckold for your surliness.’

All feelings of refinement had left him now. Spring held him in a strong grip that crushed his conscience. He was like a primitive savage. He vaulted over the stone fence into the yard, and opened the door without pausing. Little Mary was laying his supper, her back turned towards him. Without looking around she moved to the fire and said:

‘Did you pass Red John on your way?’

‘Yes,’ he said; ‘where was he going?’

‘Into Kilmurrage for a new spade. I don’t suppose he will be back before morning. Whenever he gets a shilling he drinks it. He has my heart broken.’ And she gazed at the fire mournfully in pretended woe.

But the Stranger saw the colour mounting in her cheeks, giving the lie to her words. He sat down to his supper in silence and toyed with the food, but he couldn’t swallow anything. His heart was thumping wildly. He sat listening to the silence without for fully a minute. There was a long-drawn hissing from the west, of a wave receding over a pebbly beach. The sound like a command made him stand up. He had to move his chair, and the act irritated him. Then he moved swiftly to her and bent down over her shoulders until his cheek touched hers. He could feel her body trembling. With a sigh she turned around and fell into his arms.

It was dark when he threw himself on his bed. His head swam. His body seemed to be on fire, burning with the shame that seized him for having taken her. He writhed on the bed, murmuring, ‘Christ! what possessed me to do it?’ He felt that he had committed himself to her now. His surrender to his passion hurled him back again into the world. It appeared gross to him. He tried to laugh scornfully, but he couldn’t. He repeated continually, ‘I don’t love her. I shouldn’t have done it. She trusts me.’ He was in agony when he recalled the look in her eyes as she lay in his arms. They were gentle, soft, trusting. He tore his hair and bit the bedclothes with his teeth. Then he lay still, and gradually his mind began to calm. Instead of being ashamed of himself he now became angry with Little Mary for having succumbed to him. But his anger was unreal, and he lay on his side, resting his head on his hand, staring at the wall, wondering what he should do now. Should he run away? Yes, he would run away. He got up and packed his clothes. Then he realized that he couldn’t get a steamer to the mainland until the following day, and sat down again on his bed. He sat there for a long time thinking gloomily until he heard the door open and somebody stagger into the kitchen. He jumped to his feet and rubbed his eyes. It was broad daylight.